SUNDAY EVENING
said Archie brutally. It was extraordinary how nice boys could hurt.
"I've never been to evening church. I know nothing about it; is it poignant?" asked Gilda. "Laura, we will go next time you're here."
"You might go about eight weeks hence," suggested Archie disinterestedly. "When I shall be—there, you know. It would be rather amusing. And I say, suppose you always write on Sunday evenings—no, of course you couldn't; the house is always full of people. It's awfully funny to think of those bells going, and all these chairs and sofas here, and people in them, and not me. It's funny to think of everywhere going on without one, and still going on if one never came back."
"I'll keep your corner of the sofa for you, Archie. No one else shall sit in it."
"Yes, you might." The room was getting so dark that it did not matter what one said. Laura leaned back with her head against the window frame and sighed. Fanny, with her arms folded, peered down at her own little feet. Archie began to whistle under his
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